


The Adventure of the Dying Doctor

by thefoxesfriend



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angry John, Big Brother Mycroft, Caretaker Sherlock, Drugged John, Drugs, Flatmate Sherlock, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, John in Afghanistan, Kidlock, M/M, Mycroft Being Mycroft, PTSD John, Redbeard - Freeform, Sherlock Experiments on John, Sherlock Holmes and Experiments, Sherlock Holmes is Bad at Feelings, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good, Sick John
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-09-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 20:54:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 6,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1402129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefoxesfriend/pseuds/thefoxesfriend
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John gets drugged, it's up to Sherlock to take care of him. But how will the detective, who's only experience of friendship is talking to his skull, deal with taking care of another human being, and one he's desperate not to lose?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John Watson sleepily rubbed his eyes, walking into the living room with bare feet, pyjama bottoms and disheveled blond hair. It was after nine, a late start for the army doctor. He had been out the night before with a nice woman named Jasmine...Julia...what was it again? At any rate, it hadn't ended as well as he anticipated, but most of his dates seemed to go like that lately. He was distracted, that was all. His new intruiging, yet infuriating flatmate was taking up most his time and his thoughts. Sometimes he wished he could get Sherlock out of his head, but it just didn't seem possible. Meeting Sherlock was like he had been living underground his whole life and he'd just been shown the sky. He found himself staring way too much, and Sherlock was just impossible to ignore.

He was gone from the flat now, though. He must have left early for a case or whatever other odd thing he got up to. John could tell from his coat and scarf, which were missing from the hook. He thought he'd be relieved to have a much needed break from Sherlock Holmes, but the flat just felt cold and still with the absence of his presence. John yawned, and felt his mood dampen slightly with the knowledge that he would be breakfasting alone. 

It did, however, pick up a little when he saw a thoughtfully wrapped care package sitting on the kitchen table. In it were some assorted biscuits, a jar of quality strawberry jam, and about a half a dozen scones. There was a tag on the side, which read To: Sherlock & John, Love: Your Not Housekeeper, Mrs. Hudson. John smiled and felt a rush of warmth for the kind woman who had become part of his new family since moving in with Sherlock last year. It looked like breakfast would be deliciously taken care of, he thought, and busied himself with preparing his scones and tea. Sherlock definitely wouldn't mind if he tucked into them without him. Honestly, he probably didn't even notice they were there in the first place. 

John took the first bite. The warm strawberry jam, heated by the freshly baked scones, melted in his mouth and slid down his throat in an oozing sweetness. There was something intoxicating about the taste and feel of the food on his tongue. His mouth tingled pleasantly, with an unexpected aftertaste that he couldn't quite put his finger on. He had powered through most of the scones, surprised at how delicious they were. He couldn't remember enjoying a meal like that since he was a child, holidaying in Devonshire with Harry and his parents. John took it as a good sign. He had lost so much of his appetite since coming back from the war, and now, since he had moved in with Sherlock, it felt like he had been brought back to life. 

John wiped the crumbs from his mouth, stood up, and made his way over to the sink to deposit his empty plate, piling it on top of the other assorted dishes and lab equipment that festered there. He turned to walk back to his bedroom to get dressed, but stumbled, gripping a chair for support. Damn leg! He thought he was over that for good, thanks to Sherlock. But it felt different, though. Not the usual aching pain, but more like a spasm. The wheels in his medical brain started cranking, but they were slowed to a halt as the room began to spin. 

Numbness spread through his legs, making them go weak, and John gripped more desperately to the chair in an effort to remain upright. Failing, he dropped to his knees. He tried to call out Sherlock's name, but his tongue was too large, too heavy – it just sat there useless and he couldn't make a sound. In his heart, he screamed silently for his flatmate, while he willed his brain to think of a way to get help, or to save himself. He fell, and the chair fell with him. He reached desperately for the table, only to hit his half-drunk teacup from breakfast, which fell and smashed to the ground, pooling the brown liquid around his feet. Fear, panic and confusion were the last things John Watson knew as the room blurred from a multi-coloured haze into a black well of unconsciousness.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone so much for reading and for the kudos and bookmarks! It really means the world to me, I can't even tell you. Third chapter is coming up really soon, so I'll try not to leave you guys in too much suspense. Cheers! ~thefoxesfriend

“John cancel your dinner date with Sharon tonight.” Sherlock spoke as he glided into the flat, shrugging off his coat and throwing his scarf on the hook in one deft motion. He didn't bother looking into the kitchen, or even to see if John was home. 

“We're going out. There's a promising suicide that Lestrade insists was self-inflicted, but I'm almost certain the angles of the cuts suggest otherwise.” Sherlock flopped into his chair with a sigh of relief, shrugging off the weight of the outside world. Here, he was home. It was amazing how quickly John had become a part of that – as familiar and irreplaceable as the grooves in his favorite chair or the wallpaper pattern he looked at day after day. 

Sherlock lifted himself up a little in his chair and looked around a bit like a curious meerkat. “John I assume you're conscious. How were the scones?” 

Dead silence greeted the detective, and uncomfortably, his heart began to beat a little bit harder and a little bit faster. “John...?”

A tap dripped loudly in the empty flat, and there was no response. 

“...I promise you there are no lasting effects as long as you didn't eat more than the recommended serving and didn't go overboard on the jam...”

The flat felt so still and eerie all of a sudden, like all it's warmth had been emptied. Sherlock got up and walked over to the bedrooms, tentatively pushing open the door to see if John was there. Maybe he was napping off the effects of the experiment. It was harmless, really. A little opiate he'd been perfecting. It would be perfect for stunning criminals, and for the first time, he had a test subject right here under his roof. But John wasn't in his room. He could have gone out, but his coat and gloves were still sitting by the entrance. That left...

Oh God. 

“JOHN!?”


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock rushed into the kitchen to see John lying on the floor, unconscious. The broken shards of the teacup lay smashed around him. For a moment he stood there, stunned, as the bottom dropped out of his stomach and a sudden wave of panic and guilt hit him, forcing him to steady himself against the wall.

His mind flashed suddenly to the crime scene he was at that morning. The victim had been lying supine on the floor. His eyes were closed and his features were smooth. One wrist was turned out and open towards the ceiling, and the other lay against his abdomen, his hand lightly bunching the fabric of his blue shirt like a the grip of a toddler. _That's_ why it wasn't suicide! It wasn't the angle of the cuts, it was the _arms_. If it was suicide, both wrists would be lying flat and upwards, but this man was reaching for someone, begging out for help before death and weakness forced him to give up and give in...DAMMIT! _Focus_! Not a crime scene, Sherlock. Not now.

He was crumbling, but he couldn't, not now – not with John Watson lying there on the floor because of him. He looked like he would be in a peaceful sleep, if only for the liquid that shouldn't be there pooled around his arms. _But this liquid was brown._ _It's not blood. Focus_ dammit! He forced away the image and staggered to John's side, refusing to let emotion and the twisting grip of nausea that was pooling around his stomach get the better of him.

“John!?” Sherlock said, shaking him gently. His head lolled to the side, but there was no response. Sherlock was tentative. He wasn't sure how to approach the situation. He had encoutered many victims before, but none so close. None that he felt a responsibility to save.

He knelt down and pressed his fingers against John's neck to get a read on his pulse. It was weak, but not weak enough to call Lestrade for an ambulance pick up. Good. He wanted to avoid being lectured by the DI about his drug habit for one day at least. With his other hand, Sherlock put his hand above his mouth, feeling for the intakes of breath. They were shallow, but there. He sighed in relief, surprised again at his strong reaction. He needed a breather, he needed...Sherlock sank back onto his knees and closed his eyes, letting the emotion fall over him. _Breathe. Focus. OK...it's OK..._ He was composed. He opened his eyes and surveyed the body before him. Breathing and pulse – good.

Feeling a little less like he was drowning, Sherlock resumed his examination.

He pressed a hand against John's forehead, brushing up damp, dark blond hair that was plastered to his skin with sweat.

So he was feverish. Maybe hovering around 102 or 103? Unsettlingly, his normally keen senses were failing him. It was happening more and more around his new flatmate, where clarity's edges blurred and fuzzed with a confusing warmth that left his brain withering against a stronger force. Sherlock groaned in frustration. _Focus. Clinical. Check the victim._ What's next? Pupils.

Gently, he lifted John's eyelids. He moved his face closer to John's, getting up in his pores like he was one of his murder victims. Sherlock could see right into the dark iris' of his flatmate and how they branched from the pupils in deep shades of blue. It made his heart speed up. John's pupils were dilated, which was to be expected, he thought. Obviously the opiate was still coursing its way through his system – for how much longer and to what effect, even he, Sherlock Holmes didn't quite know.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys - got your comments - so sorry for not updating sooner - life stuff just got in the way and it's been tough. I wanted to get this up as soon as I could to hold you over. As always, thanks for reading, kudos, bookmarking and please comment if you can - it means a lot:) Cheers, -thefoxesfriend.


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock Holmes had a dog when he was a boy. The pirate-obsessed youngster named it Redbeard, from the Irish setter's rich maroon coat. Little Sherlock loved the thing, and when twigs got tangled up in its fur from their tramps in the woods, or a thorn got stuck in the poor dog's paw, Sherlock would use his meticulous attention to detail and gentle dexterity to carefully extract it and make sure his Redbeard was okay. The thing never left his side, and when he would come home after another hard day enduring the taunts of his classmates, only to face the withering condescension of his big brother, Sherlock Holmes would bury his face in his loyal friend's fur and know that it was okay, because it was just the two of them against the rest of the world.

When he was thirteen, Redbeard ran into the street and was hit by a car. The boy pleaded like his very life was on the line, but what had to be done had to be done. Redbeard was put down, and it was the last time Sherlock Holmes had cared for anyone or anything. Until last month.

Sherlock Holmes felt like he was thirteen again as he looked at John's body lying helpless on the kitchen floor. He shouldn't be there. John needed to be in a bed. That's what Mycroft did when Sherlock passed out from one of his drug binges. He would wake up in a bed (usually his own. Sometimes it was at his brother's house. Occasionally, it was a hospital bed), with blankets around him and an IV in his arm, while reality came back to him. He remembered it being safe and warm. That's exactly what John needed now, he thought.  
Sherlock put a hand under his flatmate's head, raising it to let it rest against his knees. That way, he could get an arm under his shoulders and lift him off the ground to carry him to the bedroom. Sherlock paused with John's head in his lap, looking down at his peaceful, upside-down face. He had a sudden urge to bend down and... _focus..._

John's breathing was still shallow and steady. “John?” Sherlock tried again, hoping that maybe the act of moving him would prompt a response. He nudged his body gently. “John?!”

Still nothing. Sherlock sighed, and brought up John's knees into a bent position so he could scoop him up more easily. It was a difficult manoeuvre, and Sherlock was far from the agile and confident detective he was in public as he clumsily tried to lift his unconscious flatmate from his kitchen floor, but he managed to lift John's body and carry it to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OK guys - I can't thank you enough for the positive feedback I've gotten on this story! I will keep going and try to update quickly. The chapters are short because I don't want to leave you guys hanging for too long in between;) As always, comment if you can, and suggestions/constructive criticism is always welcome:) Cheers, - thefoxesfriend


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock sat vigil next to his bed, where his unconscious flatmate lay. He brushed back John's hair again, then trailed his hand down his face to find the artery in his neck. It was vital that he monitored his pulse, which was now behaving worryingly out of sync with the second hand of his watch.

“John...”

Sherlock whispered, hoping he'd get a response, some irregular flicker of an eyelid, the twitch of a finger...anything at all, but for the moment, John was nothing but still.

“John, I'm sorry. Please wake up.”

But the only man who had stuck around in Sherlock's life long enough for him to call him a friend, just breathed his shallow breaths and offered no help to the lost man sitting so close.

Sherlock got up, and rummaged through a medical bag tossed in the corner of his room, until he found a thermometer. He gave it a critical look, before wiping it on his shirt and turning it on. “Open up, John.”

Sherlock hesitated. Touching John's lips made him nervous, somehow. He should have taken an accurate reading of his temperature before, but he was stalling. Was it the way his heart pounded? Or was it how uncomfortably hot it made him feel?

No. Sherlock tried to push it away, to delete it, but feelings were much more stubborn than thoughts. He was beginning to suspect that there were some of them that would persist on surfacing despite his best efforts, and pushing back their tides was like trying to control an unruly sea. Sherlock groaned in frustration and rolled his eyes at his own irrationality. Get a hold of yourself...

He brought his hand up to John's mouth, parting his soft lips with his fingers. They were slightly wet with drool, and Sherlock didn't know whether to be grossed out, clinically detached or feel something else entirely. Anyway, it didn't matter. He had to focus, because he had a temperature to read. Sherlock let the thermometer rest below John's tongue. He made sure his mouth was closed, so there were no gaps to affect the reading.

The seconds took a while to go past as the detective waited for the results. He wondered if he should call anyone. Mrs. Hudson, or maybe even his brother, but Sherlock found himself dismissing the idea almost immediately. Mrs. Hudson would scream, and Mycroft would give him one of those withering looks that made him feel like a little boy caught stealing frogs from the science lab. No, he would fix this. John would get better, and when he woke up, he would make it right. Sherlock wasn't quite sure what was wrong, but it didn't matter. He wouldn't lose his John.

The thermometer beeped and flashed red. The sound felt too loud for the empty feeling room, and Sherlock picked it up right away. 103.2. Sherlock groaned. It wasn't hospitalisation worthy, but it was bloody close. He had to get it down, fast, or both of them would have an Emergency Room to answer to. “Hang on, John. I have ice.” Sherlock moved to get up, but just as he was about to turn his head away, he heard a moan. “Sherlock...”

“John!?”

Sherlock bounded onto the bed. John's eyelid's flickered as he began to toss and turn his head from side to side. “No...please, no...” He was unfocused, not seeing the room around him, or his flatmate hovering over him.

“John! It's okay! Nothing is going to happen to you, I promise!”

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist, and pressed his hand against his chest to brace him to the bed. His heart was going a mile a minute. “John, I'm here! You're safe!” But John just moaned louder, and Sherlock felt the resistance when John tried to clutch at his shoulder. His face a grimace of pain, John curled up his legs in agony, as Sherlock pleaded helplessly.

“John! Can you hear me?” John let a howl of pain escape him, as his muscles went taut.

“John...?” A tear slipped down Sherlock's face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. I'm so, so sorry I haven't updated sooner (Bad author. Very bad!), but I am truly grateful and overwhelmed by the positive response that I've gotten so far. Feel free to cajole me on to update faster, but you needn't worry - I will finish this fic, and soon, if it kills me. And as always, I did not create the Great Sherlock Holmes or his adorable flatmate, I'm just using them as my toys for a little while:)


	6. Chapter 6

At first, John thought he was lying in his bed at Baker Street. Then, the smell hit him. Blood, outside of the sterility of the Emergency Room that he'd worked in before, mingled with the stench of sweat, gunpowder residue and fire. The fire hit his eyes first as a light in the distance, before the larger image began to take shape. He didn't want to see the rest of the picture, but the sight of the dessert and the burnt out buildings were encroaching regardless. “No...please, no...” _Don't take me back there_ he wanted to say aloud, but those particular words stayed inside of him. They were too desperate and personal to be let out.

John was vaguely aware that beforehand he'd been lying on a soft, warm surface, but that was dropping away, too, falling at the same time as the bottom of his stomach. His ears rang. The sound of gunfire came next, and John curled in on himself in anticipation of the pain that was to come. The full impact of Afghanistan slammed into him, and for a moment he was certain he was going to vomit. John moaned as his muscles tensed. A screaming pain ripped through his shoulder, and he didn't need to look. He clearly remembered the sight of blood blossoming on his uniform, and the agony that inevitably followed.

Someone was bracing his heart, pressing their hands to his chest. The pressure grounded him and made him feel safe against the pain. He heard a strangled, pitiful moan and he knew it was coming from him. He could feel his heartbeat, pounding against those bracing hands. It was the only thing that felt real. The rest was a haze of pain.

_He was going to die_. Memories of an unremarkable childhood and a studious adolescence reeled through his mind. There, he shot his first gun, hitting the target on the first go, while his commander shouted a rare word of praise. There was his first kiss and the first time he lay naked in bed with a girl in post-coital bliss. There were his parents' graves and his sister's drunken phones calls. Then, there was a dessert spread beneath him like a child's 3-D playmat, complete with the little green soldiers and their tiny toy guns, only these were painted the colour of sand. There was blood and books, diligence and honour, but was that it? _Please don't let it end like this_... _there was more, there had to be more..._

There was some memory missing there, a vital reel of film that he needed to find. If he followed it, John knew it would lead him away from the pain, and it all came from the hands pressing against his heartbeat.

“John! I'm here! You're safe!”

The voicewas smooth and dulcet andit sank into him the way his body would sink into a deep foam mattress. For a moment, he was back safe in his bed again, before Afghanistan hit him again, and he groaned.

“John can you hear me?”

There was that voice again, pulling him back. A name popped into his head. _Sherlock._ He clung to it as if his life depended on it.

“...Sherlock?”


	7. Chapter 7

John had been mumbling in and out sleep for hours now. It was mainly “no” and “please punctuated by incoherent whimpering, but it was the whispered pleads of his name that he really couldn't take. Sherlock hadn't left John's side since he laid him on the bed, and his condition hovered from feverish to just on the cusp of biting-the-bullet and calling Lestrade or (God forbid) Mycroft. Sherlock was vigilant in keeping a cool washcloth on hand to mop the feverish sweat from John's brow. However, John's condition was taking its toll. Dark cicles smudged the pale skin under his eyes.

“ARRGH!” Sherlock smashed the lamp off his bedside table. _This is all my fault...all my fault._ How could he be so careless? How could he let his only friend, the only friend he ever had in his short pitiful and lonely life suffer like this on the expense of some desire to gather _data_ ; _evidence_...what were those things against loyalty, against companionship? Surely there was a better way, a different way to live, and the only person who could show him that was lying in a cold sweat, murmuring whispers of pain to the thin, anxiety choked air.

Sherlock mopped the sweat off John's brow, lovingly caressing his skin with the damp washcloth. The droplets of sweat he pulled off his forehead were quickly replaced, and he rung out the cloth in a basin he kept near the bed. The water was getting murky, and Sherlock made a mental note to replace it. It was then that John stirred a little, his fingers weakly grasping the white sheets. Sherlock was startled into action, catching John's head before it lolled to the side to prevent him from straining his neck.

He noted John's neck pulse under his fingers, and how it quickened in variable rates. Sherlock folded the cloth on placed it over his forehead, hoping that John might feel its coolness and be brought back to the present moment. It was obvious that he was in the midst of some sort of PTSD episode, and drifting in and out of consciousness wasn't as worrying as what John was falling back into when he fell asleep. If only he could crawl back into the trenches with John, then at least he could fight alongside him if he couldn't work out yet how to drag him back to their safe London flat.

Sherlock steadied his hand against his head again, surprised to note that John's hair had grown out considerably since he had moved into the flat. It'd only been a few months, but John's improved diet, which obviously included an increase in protein, must have had a positive effect on the rate and thickness of his hair growth. Interesting that that was entirely useless information, but deeply interesting at the same time. It was golden, his hair, and the tresses clumped together like bunches of pale straw that looked almost brown in shadow. An odd colour, but it suited the main who could be so outwardly generous, but hid something darker when the world lost its light. He moved his fingers rather slowly through the bunches, noting how soft they were, and the pleasant sensation under his fingertips, like crawling under silken sheets. If only he rubbed his scalp in the right way, maybe it would find some sort of pressure point that would be the impetus he needed to wake up.

Sherlock trailed his fingers over his scalp until he found the Governing Vessel Meridian, which was supposed to relieve the worst of headaches and dizziness. A mental image of an old accupressure textbook flared up suddenly in his mind, stacked amongst other dusty old tomes of new and old homeopathic nonsense that he spent an afternoon memorising to pass the time after class at his old University library. He didn't exactly believe the stuff, but he also didn't dismiss any data that could potentially be useful in helping him to gather insight into human psychology. At any rate, it was a pretty good excuse to massage John's scalp, and that was enough for him at the moment.

His thin, spider-like fingers searched until they found the Vessel between his ears, and rubbed in soothing circles along the space at the top of his skull. John moaned a little, and that gave Sherlock the motivation to keep it up, applying slightly more pressure to the top of his head. He figured that if he could bring John out of the worst of the mental trauma, the rest would just be the matter of sleeping off the drug as it passed through his system. No harm, no foul, after all. Sherlock kept up the pressure, finding the soft bits on his head, firmly but gently attempting to coax him back to the present. He was goaded on by another twitch of John's fingers against the sheets, and even the slight movement of his palm trying to open and close.

After a while, John began to relax, his breathing evening out into a slow and steady rise and fall. His lips open in a slight part and the tightly closed stillness of his eyelids indicated firmly to Sherlock that John was finally asleep. Taking in a big, deep sigh of relief, Sherlock rose and flexed his tired hand before deciding to go to the kitchen to get some tea, positive that John would be just as fine as when he left him while he went away. With one last look behind him at the sleeping army doctor, Sherlock gently closed the door and walked into the living area of the flat.

 

 

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Thanks so much for reading and sorry about the sporadic updating - I'll try to be better. Cheers, ~thefoxesfriend

Sherlock filled the kettle and flicked it on in a semi-daze. He rubbed his temples, and let his elbows rest on the kitchen counter while he waited for the water to boil. It was only a small window of time, but it was enough for some of the emotional weight of the last few hours to catch up to him. Sherlock became acutely aware of his pounding heart as he turned around and hitched his foot up against the cabinets, steadying himself against the kitchen counter. He stared straight through the living area to the closed door of the bedroom with blank, exhausted eyes, until the dying moan of the kettle and the soft click that told him the water was done brought him back to the present moment. Sherlock turned around again and dragged over one of the nearby mugs, scanning the countertop for some teabags. After all, tea did show up in their place all the time. He couldn't help but reason they kept themselves a well-stocked supply. Hmmm...perhaps they were in one of the jars that littered the surface around the stove? Maybe that one with the blue...oh nope. Not that one. Sherlock suddenly remembered shoving a bunch of old test tubes in there the other day. Did they ever actually cook in this place? They could be in the fridge, of course, Sherlock mused. Obviously teabags didn't need to be kept cold, but fridges could be used to store all sorts of things. If you thought about it, temperature aside, a fridge was just an airtight container with shelves...

“Ugh, I feel like Hell.” John said, shuffling into the room and rubbing his eyes. Moving from the dark bedroom to the dimly lit flat provided a shock to his eyes.

Sherlock nearly broke the mug he was holding.

“John! Oh my God! I mean...you're up!”

“Yeah? What of it?” John squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again, willing them to adjust faster to the light. His head was pounding, and he did his best to stretch and flex his aching limbs, clenching and unclenching his hands to appease some of the stiffness in his joints. God, how much alcohol had he drunk last night? He didn't remember, which meant that it was probably a hell of a lot, especially considering the killer hangover symptoms he had going at the moment. If he didn't get a hot drink into him soon, he was fairly certain he was going to murder a bitch.

John blinked at his through his haze. Sherlock didn't look so great either, come to think of it. They hadn't been...they hadn't been _out,_ had they? John's heart sped up at the thought. No...it was impossible. Sherlock was often sleepless on a case. “What's up with you?”

“Nothing, nothing!” Sherlock cleared his throat and did his best to compose himself, trying not to appear too frantic as he quickly made his way to John's side, grabbing his arm in an effort to help him to the kitchen.

“Hey! What're'ya doing?!”

“I'm, uh...helping you, because...” Sherlock cleared his throat again and let go as John twisted away in involuntary surprise. Sherlock backed off in response. “Just wondering how you were feeling, is all,” he mumbled, slightly hurt.

“...whhyyy...?”

“Because I'm concerned about you as my flatmate and friend.”

John tried to let that sink in, and then gave up when he realised his brain wasn't firing on nearly enough cylinders to digest what he'd just heard.

“Right. Well, I'm going to get some tea, and then you can tell me why you've turned into a real boy all of the sudden.”

“Wait! I'll get that for you!”

Sherlock scrambled to the kitchen ahead of John, grabbing that infernal mug again and resuming his search for the tea bags.

John could feel his headache worsen just looking at Sherlock.

“They're in the corner. Red jar, next to the stove,” he winced.

“Right. Of course.”

John tried to shake his head. “How long have you lived here? Seriously?”

“Well, y'know how it is, tidying up with new lodgers and all that.”

“Hmmm. Wait, what!?”

“New flatmates, y'know. Guests and, uh, making hospitable living conditions for...John are you really sure you're feeling okay!?”

"Are  _you_ feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, I'm _completely_ fine."

"Well that's good and not at all suspicious. And for the record, no I'm not feeling fine."

"Really!?" Sherlock rushed back to John's side. 

“Yeah...uh is there a reason I shouldn't be?” John asked, trying to bat away Sherlock's concern pretty unsuccessfully.

“No. Not at all.”

"Right, um what's going on?"

"Nothing!"

“Really? Because you're surprised I'm okay, but you're not surprised I'm okay, which isn't weird and cryptic at all, not to mention this normal person act you're doing.”

“I wasn't  _surprised_ John _,_ I was just concerned.”

“Concern.  From you?”

“And why is that so surprising?” Sherlock asked, suddenly becoming defensive. 

"It's not- Sherlock, let's not do this okay? My head feels like it's gone ten rounds with a street boxer and it's already- wait, does that say _three AM_  !?" John grabbed the nearest newspaper off the table. "Fucking Hell, it's  _still_ Monday?" 

"Sherlock, why am I waking up with one of the worst hangovers of my life at 3 AM on a Monday? And no bullshit. Answers. Now. Or I'm out."

“...uhhhh...I may have...”

Sherlock mumbled the rest. “Slipped something into your breakfast that I had been working on before - I'm really sorry - I didn't think for a second that it would be a major risk, but you understand that if the drug was effective and your symptoms had matched my predictions, then it would have been a potential breakthrough in pharmaceutical chemistry.”

He paused.

“John, I'm really sorry – I know you'd never agree to it if I gave you advance notice of my intentions.”

“Plus, I was betting on the fact that you wouldn't remember it anyway.” He added quietly.

“And well, it had to be you because I've never had anyone around before that I was close enough to physically to observe all day.”

“John, I'm really very sorry.” Sherlock did his best to look sincere, and he figured that John's silence was a cue to keep talking. “That may have come out slightly creepier than I intended.” but in an nutshell, I had assumed that everything would turn out okay, and-”

“ _Stop._ Just...stop talking.”

“Right. Well, I'll just go get that tea and- ”

“ _Okay?_ ”

“Yes, well, you're clearly fine, so I'll just go and-”

“OKAY!?!”

“...Not okay?”

“NO! It is not _okay_ you  _sociopath!_ What is wrong with you? You think that's appropriate, huh? In what universe would any of _that_ be _OKAY_!?”

“John, please! I'm really very, very sorry! Just listen to me, I never meant-”

“LISTEN? I'm listening, Sherlock. I'm listening, but I'm having a hard time understanding how someone, even a genius consulting detective with a sock index and a murder fetish could think it's _okay_ to put a potentially lethal experimental drug into their flatmate's breakfast and hope it'd all just turn out for the best.”

“Well, I didn't expect you to eat so many.”

“Right. That's it - I'm leaving. Goodbye, Sherlock, and good luck finding yourself a new flatmate or human guinea pig or whatever, because I'm not taking this anymore!”

John got up, grabbing his coat and throwing on a pair of shoes before exiting the flat, slamming the door behind him, and Sherlock was left holding a steaming mug of tea, alone again at Baker Street.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

John angrily shoved open the door to Speedy's cafe, completely ignoring the fact that he was only wearing a thing slip of flannel pants and button down shirt underneath his heavy winter coat. His feet also chafed uncomfortably and he realised he wasn't wearing any socks to cushion the soles of his feet.

Wind and rain lashed the pavement outside, mirroring John's tempestuous mood. When he arrived inside the cafe, he tried to collect his breath, which felt sapped dry by the winter wind.

Unfortunately, what was waiting for him did nothing to calm his nerves.

“Oh Great. It's you.”

“I expected a warmer greeting than that, Dr. Watson.”

“Well then you're just as obtuse as your brother, Mycroft.”

“Now, now. We're not here for insults.”

“Says you.”

“Hm. A little childish, don't you think?” Mycroft asked, raising his eyebrow.

John scoffed. His anger had reached fever pitch, and he could feel it in his knuckles, how the adrenaline vibrated under his skin, how it ran through his joints and made them want to do things that he'd get arrested for – in this country at least. John clenched and unclenched his hand. To appease them, maybe. Let some of the energy out. It was going to be okay. His voice was shaking.

“No, Mycroft. I think that's your little brother your thinking of.”

“Hm. Yes.” Mycroft twisted his black umbrella on the tiled floor back and forth, almost nervously, like a tic, John thought. The rain droplets flicked off the shiny black surface and fell to the floor, creating a tiny puddles in the middle of the cafe. He looked around at his own mess from traipsing in with wet shoes. The two of them really should really be sitting if they were going to do this here in the cafe. Then again, he _wasn't_ going to do this, he thought, looking around for the nearst exit and reflecting on how risky it would be to brave the weather outside again. Sure, the temperature wasn't that bad, but considering he just recovered from an illness (of sorts), he would potentially be setting himself up for pnuemonia, or even worse.

“Looking for exits already, Dr. Watson?”

_Fucking Hell. How do they do that?_ He thought.  _Bloody mind readers those Holmes._ He also didn't have a good answer to that, which was frustrating in itself. The pause hung there in the air, pregnant and angry.

“Let's sit. Shall we?” Mycroft looked over to one of the booths.

“I don't have much of a choice here, do I?”

Mycroft twisted his umbrella again. Back and forth. “No, not really.”

“Then let's sit.” He smiled, and it didn't even touch the vicinity of his eyes.

John sipped his coffee, slurping it lightly and wincing when his lips, which were chapped from the cold, met the hot beverage. Mycroft sat in front of him. He was looking down at his coffee, but not drinking it. He was considering whether to risk it. Brown rings smudged the table top from all the coffee cups that had been drunk and gone and which no one had bothered to wipe, and crumbs littered its surface. Mycroft kept his arms folded neatly in his lap, well away from the grimy tabletop, while John leant casually on it, oblivious to the mess.

“So you're telling me that Sherlock – _our_ Sherlock – is still broken up about his pet dog?” John was floored. Sherlock always seemed almost inhuman to him, but now he was seeing a whole new side of him. “Hm. Yes.” Mycroft was frowning. “You shouldn't make light of it, John. He's much more sensitive than you think, that boy.”

“Haha – you're going to give me a lecture on being sensitive?”

Mycroft was glaring at him, so John just cleared his throat and tried to get back to the subject.

“But really though? Sherlock?” John's heart had sped up at the thought. “How so?”

Mycroft looked peeved, but he continued.

“Sherlock was broken up for days, weeks on end really. Just inconsolable. In hindsight it was probably due to the fact that he didn't really have any _human_ friends.”

“That's a little harsh, Mycroft.” Now John was starting to get irritated. No wonder Sherlock shut all his emotion away, with that for a brother.

“Well, it is the truth. And you know what we say about the truth, Dr. Watson.”

“But he's your family, shouldn't you, I dunno, soften the blow a little, make him feel better at least?”

“I did. In my own way. Sherlock is not like the rest of us. Or perhaps I should say the rest of you.”

Mycroft paused, considering something for a bit, before continuing. 

“I taught him to utilise the talent that he had, and to use that to quash what was painful. It was effective, don't you think?”

“No, I don't.”

“You disagree that Sherlock has done well for himself?”

“I think you turned him into a robot, and in case you haven't noticed, besides me, he's hasn't got any friends.”

“Hm, so you're his friend now? That's funny, I thought you were done with us Holmes'.”

Mycroft smiled a little, which John thought was odd, but he was too annoyed to bother thinking much into it.

“Maybe only one of them.”

There was a look of satisfaction, and even triumph in Mycroft's eyes. 

“Well then I guess you'd best be getting back, Dr. Watson.”

John wasn't even angry anymore. He knew that going back to Baker Street would probably have been inevitable anyway, but meeting Mycroft just served to clarify everything he felt deep down. If he was honest with himself, he was always going to go back there. John caught himself looking outside where the weather had cleared up just a little. He itched to see Sherlock again, and the pull he felt to go back to their flat felt stronger by the second. John's eyes were already fixed on the door when he moved to get up and away from one very irritating Holmes brother and go back home to the other.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's reading this and especially those leaving comments, kudos, bookmarks, etc. If I haven't replied to one of your comments, it's because I can't think of anything to say and not because I don't love you (because I definitely do love everyone who leaves comments)  
> Cheers  
> ~thefoxesfriend


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